


inconveniences

by fundamentalBlue



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha Tony Stark, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bottom Steve, Bottom Tony, But for good reasons!, Dark Steve Rogers, Omega Steve Rogers, Serial Killer, Top Steve, Top Tony, ish, steve loves tony so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25852270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fundamentalBlue/pseuds/fundamentalBlue
Summary: Tony wishes he could claim he’s never been dense, but it took him a long time to figure this one out.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 25
Kudos: 176





	inconveniences

Tony wishes he could claim he’s never been dense, but it took him a long time to figure this one out. 

In his defense, Steve had never given any outward indication of dissatisfaction, anger, or, well, anything. 

They’re at a charity gala for some obscure artist’s fund for orphans in Brooklyn, an affair close to Steve’s heart. And Tony will do just about anything for Steve. Their dynamic is already interesting enough, but Tony has always preferred interesting over expedient. 

Most omegas ceded nest protection to alphas, but there was a small subset that took the duty of caring for the nest to its fullest extent. Steve was one of those rare omegas, though not surprisingly, who considered it their sacred duty to physically defend their home. And Tony, he loved it. 

Bratty heats where Steve manhandled him to the bed, told him where to put his body so he could be of use to Steve, where Steve growled when anyone passed their door, and if he thought there was an actual threat, Tony would be unceremoniously shoved behind Steve. It’s not that Tony can’t himself defend them. He’s Iron Man. But it’s Steve’s job. Steve has claimed the right, and Tony finds it a marvel every time Steve steps up to existent and non-existent threats for Tony. 

He’d ask where Steve was when Howard was laying hands on him, but that’s not fair. And anyway, the defense he gets now satisfies every broken dream he’s ever had about Captain America saving him. Steve has been healing his childhood one glowering stare at a time. 

It’s especially effective when he brings the face out to galas like this. Which is again why he doesn’t notice. Not in the way that he doesn’t see. Because he sees. But he doesn’t _notice_.

No, what he locks in on is Sunset Bain sashaying her way over to him in an inexorable circle. His hand tightens and tightens on his drink until it’s slippery with nervous sweat and condensation. 

It’s an overreaction to call Sunset a rapist. He got it up, after all. But the nuances of consent had been lost on the older woman. Though he suspected she full well knew what she was doing and did it anyway. A late-night confession to Steve, whispered after they’d made love had his normally sweet omega grouchy and pacing. But it’d been months since he’d told Steve. Nonetheless, like magic, Steve materializes at his side, his biceps pressing at the seams of his suit coat as he crosses his arms, all but screaming that he’s on the defensive. 

Sunset isn’t deterred. He’d call it brave, but what it’s always been is a serial disregard for the boundaries of others. As if she sees the wall, and thinks that its existence offends her, and she must scale it to see whatever is on the other side, even if there’s bloodletting in the process. Moth to flame, once again she walks towards Tony’s castle of emotion, sticky hands feeling for a way in. 

She finds it when Tony’s conversation partner slips away, and Sunset slots herself in place. He looks at her hands, so cruel, her nails the same red, the very same, that they were when she gripped his neck and made his world go black. 

As fierce as Captain America is considered to be, for some unfathomable reason, it never seems to translate to Steve Rogers, omega. Out of uniform, he might as well be translucent next to Tony when it comes to these hoity-toity parties. Steve never minds. Steve is reliable, patient, enduring. He’s Tony’s anchor when it gets to be too much, and Tony wonders how he ever lived without the man. 

“Tony, my darling, it’s so good to see you.” She lays a proprietary hand on his shoulder before she drags her claws down the fabric, leaning in for a kiss to his cheek and then his other. Steve says and does nothing. Tony knows he hates when people touch him, but they’re in public, and some things are required. 

It doesn’t stop Tony from envisioning the very moment, so long ago, that he realized Sunset wasn’t going to let him go. 

He’d call Sunset brazen, but it would require her to understand she’d done something wrong in the first place. The woman had no fear. She’d gotten away with it. 

That would always sting. 

He makes it through a few of her unconsciously tossed barbs and what amounts for small talk with a solidity he doesn’t feel. His core is shaking, disassembling, and cracking with every smile he gives her. It melts inside him like soft wax, and he can feel his insides losing their shape. He’s becoming formless. Fear doesn’t know its own shape, because it lives in darkness. He can only feel the walls of his anxiety as they clench down on him and press, slippery on his carefully architected facade. 

There are no handholds inside this monotonous breakdown that he can grab hold onto. Instead, he physically loops his arm around Steve’s elbow, grasping on for dear life. Steve, who knows the taste of Tony’s fear, leans in and becomes the only thing propping Tony up as Sunset drones on about her successes, some of them old iterations of ideas she stole from him. He thinks she takes secret delight in trotting out her crimes. Her accomplishments. 

Finally, finally, they escape, and the whole ambiance, every sharp laugh and cackle, is sour in his mouth thereafter. Being near her rots his life. The bad apple. The bad seed. 

“Let’s go home.” Steve is gentle. Steve knows. How much Steve knows, should have worried him, but it’s _Steve_. There is nothing and everything that gives any indication of what could happen. 

They go home, pull their sweaty and foul-scented clothes off, and they make love. 

Tony finds himself inside of Steve, scrabbling for the grounding he lost earlier in the evening. It comes on a wave of orgasm, his hands gnarled with possessive grip in Steve’s hands as he knots his omega, his Steve. 

It’s better to say that he’s Steve’s. His only, his one person. His sense of belonging in a life that has never worn right on him until Steve tailored it. Steve trimmed his bad sleep schedule, took shears to his ugly drinking habits, darned every difficult task until Tony either found them easy to do or they went fully to Steve. 

A nest-maker. A home-maker. But of the interior of Tony. 

Everywhere inside of Tony exists a structure that’s been started or otherwise touched by Steve. 

The morning after, Steve mounts Tony in the bed, taking where he had been giving the night previous. When Steve comes in thick ropes over Tony’s chest, he drags his fingers through it, painting the gland on Tony’s neck, and the ones on his wrists. It’s a traditional alpha behavior, but Steve has always been insistent on it between them, and Tony always wears his scent proudly. 

They shower together before Steve slips off to make breakfast. 

The rest of the day passes as it normally does, with Tony in the workshop tinkering and creating. 

Domesticity suits them. Steve takes Tony to bed, enforcing his bedtime rules, and Tony grumbles as a matter of course, but happily complies. 

This is his life. It’s a good life. 

The next morning, the front page of the paper shows a picture of Sunset and the sensationalist headline that she’d been murdered in her bed the night before. It hits him like sinking into a too-hot bath. His skin is crying out against the incursion of emotion, and it burns, it burns, it burns. Until it’s numb. 

He should be happy. 

Instead, he feels like when she died, she took with her the piece of Tony that she’d claimed for herself. He’d never gotten it back. He needed to get it back from her, but he very well couldn’t reach into the grave to scoop it out of her dead body. No, she had eaten it, and now she would never divulge her contents again. Whatever journey her sad soul took, that piece of him went with. 

It left him with a baseless, floating anger. He snapped at Steve for most of the day. Steve, who took it without comment, so wise to Tony’s ways that it made Tony want to rage for how _good_ Steve was that he knew Tony so well. 

It was always easier when Tony had something to fight. Now he was just scrapping at his scabs, letting the blood dribble out of his wounds. As if he could shed his filthy thoughts of reviving her and killing her all over again. Of his pathological jealousy of whoever had done it. Whoever had taken from him what was _his_.

The haze lasted for a few weeks. Hindsight is twenty-twenty. 

Now it’s a few months later, and he’s staring into the blue eyes of Tiberius Stone and tumbling down the sharp cheekbones to the white smile, to the ostentatious suit, to his Italian loafers. It makes Tony fold back into himself. Is that how he looks? Is he as sad and pathetic as Stone? 

It’s amazing how he can feel simultaneously ostracised from and made small by his similarities to the man before him. A shadow image in a picture where he doesn’t quite belong. And it’s like Ty has always known that, the other man’s arm coming down over his shoulders in a gesture that would normally seem like protection, but Tony knows, he knows, it’s amusement. It’s pity. 

Ty, whose hand had wrapped around his knot when Tony was all of fourteen, whispering promises that it would feel good, that it was right. The next day when Ty wouldn’t make eye contact with Tony was illuminating in the way fluorescent lights are. Harsh, ugly. 

Really, Tony should get over it. It was an earlier hurt than Sunset. It was small and stupid, like they had been. 

“We should catch up Tony.” Ty’s voice is a low rumble. He’s warm, alpha, and it had been so reassuring to Tony when he was young. It curdled in his mouth now to scent it once more. 

“Meeting my husband for lunch. Maybe some other time.” Tony needed to get away from here. 

“I don’t see your husband. Just a drink Tony. He won’t care if you’re late.” That’s not wrong. Steve is indulgent. He’s kind when it comes to these little things that happen to Tony. 

“Tony! Who’s your friend?” And like that, Steve is there, his golden blond head a counterpoint to the rusty blond streaks in Ty’s hair. Bigger than most alphas, Steve intimidates. He makes other alphas ill at ease. Ty is not immune, and the man takes a step back, removing his arm from Tony, before doing the polite thing and shaking Steve’s hand. Steve, who knows very well who Ty is, beams at him with his best politick smile and shakes the hand. 

“Sorry, if you’ll excuse us.” 

Lunch is a breath of fresh air, and he forgets all about Tiberius. That is, until the next morning when the newspaper announces the murder of Tiberius Stone, and hints at salacious details pertaining to it. 

Tony skips learning about those, but it picks at him. 

He dreams of Ty laughing at him, of the warm musk he could smell when Ty wrapped his hand around Tony’s cock and pumped, once, twice, before Tony’s adolescent self came in spurts. He feels every drag of Ty’s hand, even when it turns skeletal before his eyes, even when Ty begins to rot away, his jaw falling off his face and hands turning to ash over him. He feels it when Ty is gone, in his dreams, stroking and laughing. 

Once again, Tony is _denied_. 

For the most part, everything is fine. Steve keeps him on schedule, and says nothing about the half-eaten plates or the extra coffee that Tony consumes. He doesn’t deserve his steadfast mate. He doesn’t deserve anything. He couldn’t take back what was stolen before it was too late. 

He’s haunting his home now, and he can feel Steve’s eyes on him as Tony fades into the background of his own life. 

“What is it, sweetheart? You know you can tell me anything.” Steve is trying so hard for Tony. He’s rubbing little circles onto his back, pulling two fingers down as he frames the outline of Tony’s spine. He’s scrambling at the edges of Tony’s sanity, looking for a way in before Tony’s mind finds a way out. Tony doesn’t deserve him, and Steve doesn’t deserve a fractured alpha. 

“It’s nothing.” He tightens the blankets around them as he burrows into his pillow. 

“It’s not nothing. Tell me.” Steve’s voice feels like a pry bar, and Tony wants so badly to just let Steve in on his thoughts. 

“It’s stupid.” Steve has already won. 

“Nothing you say is stupid. Come on, you can be honest with me.”

“It’s like, ever since Sunset and Ty died, I just can’t help but feel like they stole something I can’t get back. Like I’ve wasted all these years not confronting them about it only to miss out on my chance. They’re gone now, and there’ll never be recompense.” 

“Oh Tony, that’s not stupid at all. They hurt you.” Steve’s arms curl around Tony, bracketing him from whatever forces exist in this world that intend him harm. 

“And I should have hurt them. But now they’re gone.”

“Maybe the world has a sense of justice.” 

“The world has nothing. It’s just random, unfair circumstance.” 

“Maybe,” Steve says, like he doesn’t believe Tony. 

Things get better after that. It’s inexplicable how Steve can get Tony to live again after he’s gone through a slump. But that’s one of the many magical parts of Steve. 

Things are almost completely back to normal again when Tony runs into Aldrich Killian. 

It’s a clusterfuck of epic proportions, Aldrich finagling a personal meeting with Tony through one of Tony’s own board members. It’s before lunch, which Steve always brings in on Tuesdays, and it makes Tony watch the clock fastidiously as Aldrich drones on. 

“Are you even listening? The implications of this virus are off the charts of what’s known about healing and even immortality. Think of what we could change!” Tony’s eyes slide off the clock and back to Killian’s face. What he finds there is a poorly hidden condescension and the sensation that Aldrich is proving something to himself as he’s talking to Tony. Tony wants no part of any of it. 

“Too easy to weaponize, and I don’t deal in weapons. You’re coming to me because you can’t get it to work. You want my help. But once you have it, there’s nothing stopping you from selling it to the highest bidder. And that I won’t be a part of. Thank you for your time, but that’s all I have for you.”

“You know Tony, I thought you’d changed. It wasn’t so long ago you promised a younger, more idealistic version of me that you’d meet me on a rooftop. You never showed.”

“You can’t guilt me into being a sycophantic supporter of your agenda. So sorry, but I have lunch with my husband right now.” The clock turns over to 1 pm and the flood of relief hits him like a jolt of caffeine. It’s time. Steve is coming. 

“We can have whatever contracts you want drawn up Tony. I’m willing to negotiate. We just need to get it stable.” The wheedling is covered with a veneer of slimy salesmanship. 

“It’s time for you to go, Killian. Now.” The door opens and Steve steps through, giving a little ‘oh’ as he sees that Tony still has company. 

“Hi, sweetheart. Killian was just leaving.” Killian gets up and siddles alongside his chair over to Steve, ignoring Tony’s dismissal. 

“Steve, can I call you Steve?” Aldrich grasps Steve’s hand, and Tony watches as Killian draws a finger over the gland on Steve’s wrist. It’s the kind of rude that is hard to define. It’s a microaggression, and not something easy to call out. Tony would be incensed, but for the fact that Steve can handle himself. 

“No, you may not.” Steve’s face is carefully blank. It’s the most emotion that Tony has ever seen his husband show in a situation like this. Usually, he can muster a shy grin and a twinkle in his eye. 

Killian withdraws, calculation flitting over his face. Whatever he reasons out, he doesn’t like the odds on, and he nods at Steve and then Tony. 

“Captain Rogers. Mister Stark.” Killian slips by like an oil spill, and Tony exhales when the door clicks shut behind him. 

“I brought lasagna. Your mom’s recipe.” Steve holds up the bag like a prize, his face like a rising sun, and Tony’s world immediately brightens. Always considerate, Steve sets up Tony’s lunch for him, and as Tony waits until Steve is finished, he thinks about how good his life is. Just as Steve opens the top off the steaming container of food and makes to sit down, Tony grabs at Steve’s belt and tugs. The movement spins Tony’s chair to face Steve, and Tony presses his face bodily into Steve’s belly, his arms slumping around Steve’s hips. 

He breathes deep of Steve and the smells of cooking. Steve hand made the ricotta. He can tell. 

“You’re the thing that keeps me here, you know that?” 

“Eat your lasagna, Tony.” 

“But I want to be maudlin.” 

“Later, if you want to get tears on my shirt, I’ll let you.” Steve sits down where Aldrich was and rubs his glands on the arms of the chair, scenting it as Steve’s. His husband does everything right. It helps ease everything. He’s overwhelmed with how grateful he is, how maybe some other alpha would be agitated having their life guided by their omega, but Tony, he’s built for it. He’s built for love like this. Without Steve, there would be no home to defend, no reason for the work. He’d have let things like Sunset and Ty consume him a long time ago. Steve is the only reason he can now take those difficult things and try to bury them. Even if they still sting. 

The day passes uneventfully, Steve leaving him in a good mood for the rest of work. They go to bed at a decent time, and Tony presses a tender kiss to Steve’s temple, delighting in the sharp hairs there that tickle his lips. Steve seeks out Tony’s mouth and latches on with an off-center kiss. It’s imperfect, and its imperfection is a comfort. If Steve were good at everything one hundred percent of the time, Tony would be in trouble. 

Tony’s eyes shoot open at some undetermined point in the night and he reflexively tosses his hand to his left, thinking to gently hit Steve’s warm body. But the bed is empty and cold. 

He sits up fast. 

“JARVIS, where is Steve?” The bathroom door is dark and cracked open, so wherever Steve is, he’s not in their room. It’s silly, being afraid of a little darkness, but Tony doesn’t like leaving the bed at night. He puts up with Steve needing a midnight snack, because it’s _Steve_. The man needs a lot of calories. 

But there’s something about an empty nest that gets to Tony.

“Sir, I have no information on Mr. Rogers’ whereabouts.” Tony’s body roils with tension then, thinking through every possible avenue of where Steve is, and coming up with nothing. Steve has left their home undefended. It’s unlike him. 

“Where’s his phone?”

“In the tower.” 

“His bike?” 

“In the parking garage.” 

“JARVIS, scan the cctv footage in the city of new york. Find him.” Steve’ll come back. Tony knows that. He has to. Tony needs Steve, and Steve knows that. 

“Sir, if I may suggest waiting until—–”

“No, you may not. _Find Steve_.” The room is dark and heavy, the air taking on a chill that feels impossible with the temperature controls in place. As tightly as the feeling starts to coil around Tony, the room feels empty, a nest missing its bird. 

Searching for Steve doesn’t work. Tony is left clutching the covers to his knees, staring into the darkness as holograms of cameras flicker through the air, but none of them stop on Steve’s face. 

It’s hours or only minutes later that JARVIS alerts him to Steve entering the tower. 

“Lights fifty percent.” And he waits. He listens for the soft swish of the doors to the elevator opening and closing. He hears the tinkling of keys on the counter. He notes the footsteps that move so quietly down the hallway. 

The door opens and Steve appears, as though he might not have been the one behind the door all along, or so Tony’s mind tells him. 

“Where were you?” Tony’s voice is tight with concern. His omega was _out_ , unprotected and away from their home, and Tony didn’t know. 

“Just taking care of something, Tony.” 

“What?” What could possibly be more important than the continued safety of Steve and as such the happiness of Tony? 

“An errand, that’s all.” 

“An errand at 3 am?” Steve is standing in the door frame, one large hand gripping the edge as his other hand lingers on the door handle in uncertainty. Tony wants him in the room, in their bed, but he doesn’t beckon Steve over. 

“Yes.” Steve is so calm, so reasonable. Tony wants to believe that it’s fine, but every hair on his body stands on end from some unknown, unseeable danger. 

“Tell me.” 

“I can’t.” 

“You won’t! Tell me, Steve.” Tony clenches the blankets around him tighter, his heart chilled like a stone in a running creek. Steve steps in the room then, shadowed body blocking out the light from the hallway. He lumbers over, still wearing his pajamas, as Tony watches with belated fear. He can’t lose Steve. He needs Steve. 

“We’ll talk tomorrow, sweetheart.” Steve reaches over and cups Tony’s trembling cheek before slipping into the covers next to him. Tony lets Steve wrap himself around him, arms enclosing Tony in safety. Their love hangs about them, as still as crystal and as fragile. It rains on them ever so softly, but it floods the river between them. Tony despairs that someday he’ll be overwhelmed with all of it, and he’ll fracture or drown. Needing something to survive that could also kill you is just his way of things. He doesn’t know how to stand close to fire without touching it. He doesn’t know how to have Steve without being consumed by him. 

“Don’t do that again.” The demand comes out brittle, uncertain. 

“Tomorrow. I promise.” Tony clutches at the vow, pulling it tight to his chest where it gnaws at him. 

He listens to the gentle sounds of Steve’s sleep as he outwaits the sun. He wonders what it could possibly be, and he invents reasons that are worse than the last, culminating in a twisted feeling that Steve was somehow conducting an impossible affair. Which Steve would never do, so Tony is left with no explanations that make any sense. 

Steve wakes up as normal, patting Tony on the head before getting up to make coffee. It leaves Tony forlorn in their bed, counting in an unknown measure how close he is to hearing what Steve has to say for himself. The truth is as difficult to lay hold on as air. It’s squirming, unidentifiable to Tony, and he doesn’t know if he wants to see it or carry it. As if looking it in the eye will turn his life to stone. 

It doesn’t take long for Tony to give in and join Steve in the kitchen. He’s as drawn to the conflict as he is afraid of it. 

“Tell me.” 

Steve plops a newspaper in front of Tony instead as he shuffles around the kitchen preparing breakfast. Rolling with it, Tony picks up the news and spies something that might be interesting under the second fold. He flips it open to look, and staring back at him is Aldrich Killian, found dead in his penthouse early this morning by his assistant. The article is scant on details, but it’s already making Tony’s blood run cold. 

“What is this?” Tony gestures with the paper, searching Steve’s face in desperation. 

“It was an inconvenience. And now it’s not.” 

Longing settles into Tony and he reaches over to grasp Steve’s hand. 

“Sunset? Ty?” 

“Won’t bother you again.” Tony’s fingers enclose Steve’s, and he pets at them, trying to scrape the essence of what Steve has done off of them. Steve belongs to Tony, and Tony belongs to Steve, and if their deaths are Steve’s, then they’re Tony’s as well. The tight squeeze of his gut begins to loosen, and he feels delirious relief swell inside of him. 

“I would make the world for you, Tony. I saw what they took from you, and I took it back.” The earnest light in Steve’s sunrise-blue eyes wraps around him, heavy and indolent. They each move in tandem, Steve swinging his body around the island and Tony meeting him as his chair scrapes at the ground. They don’t clash so much as seal together like the reverse of a flower’s blooming, the petals of their bodies slotting so perfectly into alignment. 

“Give it to me. Give it back to me, Steve.” His breath is heavy, like puffs of wind over a discontent sea as he gazes up at Steve. Their arms are slung around each other in lazy satisfaction as Tony begins to mouth at Steve, like a baby animal hoping to be fed from its parent’s mouth. Steve obliges him with peppered kisses and the sweet marrow of what he’s done for Tony. 

“I held Sunset’s hand to her own neck and choked her with it. She recorded everything, Tony. I took it for you.” Tony groans and presses himself up against Steve, hard. The long planes of their bodies rub together like a washboard, each lean piece playing a tune of love as the muscles roll and shift together like a bow and its violin. 

“I soaked the bed with Ty. Every cut he ever gave you, I returned it tenfold.” Tony is drowning in it, he is sinking and never rising. He is evermore happy inside the glutted womb of their love, until Steve asks him to be reborn into the light. 

“For me?” Tony asks, breathless.

“For you.” They sway together, forehead to forehead, lips to lips, hand to hand. Slowly, Tony begins to pull at Steve, who follows like a magnet. They make their way to the bedroom, unable to be parted from one another. 

Tony drops to the bed, and Steve does so beside him, their bodies mirrored quotations towards one another, and in the center, everything that Steve has done to protect them. Tony reaches across the gap and caresses Steve’s beautiful face, the pads of his hands rough on the stubble that Steve hasn’t shaved off this morning. He leans in slow, and completes the sentence between them that’s waiting to be spoken. 

Licking the inside of Steve’s mouth, Tony moves like he’s the tide coming in, relentless, searching for every fissure that Steve has. His leg wedges between Steve’s, his arms reaching towards Steve’s chest. They’re doing their best to crawl into one another, and it’s working, each of them gathering up the commensurate parts into a single, whole animal that is Steve and Tony. 

“And Killian?” 

“He wanted a super-soldier, a weapon. He got one.” Tony groans at the admission and pulls Steve on top of him. 

“Fuck me, soldier boy. I want you inside me.” 

“Always, always inside you.” Steve slips out of his clothes with ease before he tugs at Tony’s pajama pants, hoisting them down Tony’s hips. His arms are braced on either side of Tony as Steve hovers over him, eyes searching Tony’s for permission. Tony gives it, willing every bit of his need into his eyes, looking to pierce that last veil between them. And when it falls, when Steve is here with him completely, they move in tandem, hands grazing over each other’s flesh as they harvest the field of their desire. 

With every loving touch and kiss, Tony takes back into himself all the things he thought he’d lost. Steve gives over completely, allowing him access, entry into his mouth, and his heart. Steve gropes to the side, his hand smacking the nightstand before clutching at the handle and pulling open the drawer. Lubricant in hand, he slicks up a finger and reaches down to circle at Tony’s entrance. 

They’ve done this before, as taboo as it’s apparently supposed to be, and Steve works him with the familiarity he has of his own body. One finger and then two, twisting and spreading, and soon enough Steve is inside, moving with every slide of Tony’s body across the bed. Their fingers entwine and Steve ripples, every end of his sinuous undulation ending in a sharp jolt inside Tony. 

“More. Deeper.” Tony is not above begging. He loves Steve to the very depths of his being, and through him, he feels the ghost of Sunset’s neck, of Ty’s broken body, and the empty hunger of Killian broken beneath him. He stands atop those feelings, striding like a giant. With him throughout is Steve, pulsing inside of him with a steady throbbing. Steve, who is the better half of his soul, his dark north star. 

Together, they’re everything. 

“And Killian?” He needs to know. 

“Even Extremis can’t heal multiple fractures to the spine.” Tony moans on Steve’s answering thrust and clings at Steve’s shoulders, taking him all the way to the hilt. Steve pulls Tony’s head back down and locks their eyes together.

“I’m here for you, Tony. I’m always here and I’d do anything for you. You won’t ever have to live in a world of inconveniences. Not while I’m around.” 

“Steve,” he says, and then comes untouched, knot swelling between them. Steve grunts and follows after, the fluttering of his cock as he empties himself into Tony a counterpoint to the tender stroking of Tony’s face that Steve is engaged in. 

As they lay together on the bed, Tony relishes the newfound closeness he has with his husband. These hands he’s holding have killed for him. He imagines he can feel the tremor of the lives taken with them on Steve’s skin. 

In the morning sun, Steve is glowing. Today is going to be a good day. And who knows, perhaps they’ll run into Ezekial Stane. 

He lets Steve pull him up and away for breakfast.

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr](https://fundamental-blue.tumblr.com/)


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